


Infinite Monkeys with Infinite Typewriters

by equals_eleven_thirds



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Interdimensional Travel, M/M, Multiverse, and annabelle being present and friends with jon is what i deserve, and then you meet yourself and his husband and you HAVE to know backstory, jon has a bittersweet meeting and annabelle has a motorcycle. it's what they deserve., sometimes you are traveling through the multiverse trying to stop ancient fear gods, they are friends in a bitch way. u kno.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-20
Updated: 2021-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-29 03:00:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30149718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/equals_eleven_thirds/pseuds/equals_eleven_thirds
Summary: ...will, eventually, type the complete works of William Shakespeare.Or, Jon has an object lesson in probabilities.
Relationships: Annabelle Cane & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 12
Kudos: 74





	Infinite Monkeys with Infinite Typewriters

**Author's Note:**

> so this has [some](https://equalseleventhirds.tumblr.com/post/646015930972946432/dianna-wynne-jones-theory-you-say) [backstory](https://equalseleventhirds.tumblr.com/post/646039465424551936/hello-i-was-thinking-abt-my-favored-theory-of-jon), but all you really need to know is that jon went with the fears when they left the world, and is trying to minimize the damage they caused. are causing. will cause in the future.
> 
> also annabelle is there, because i love her.

There are rules, to the traveling, or at least there _seem_ to be. There are certainly questions to be asked and points to be made, about how many instances count as a definitive _rule_ rather than simply a pattern. But Jon likes to think of them as rules. He's always preferred concrete answers, even if it turns out they're less the _truth_ and more just a convenient way of conceptualizing things.

So he has rules.

First: the Fears always come through on the same day. October 18, 2018. Or, given the impact history has on calendars, the equivalent of it; he'd once spent months trying to correlate the forty-third moon of cycle 1852 with _his_ calendar just to prove his point, but the math _had_ all worked out.

(Which does indicate, at least to Jon, that yes, the Fears probably did originate in his home world, _Georgie._ He'll take his petty wins where he can get them. For as long as he can remember the discussion, and the _people,_ he's proving wrong.)

Second, it is still _his_ tapes that the Fears follow. For every apocalypse there has been a new catalyst, but none of these new rituals supersede _his_. Maybe it's a testament to the strength of the Web's original plan, or maybe it's just something about Jon himself. He knows what he thinks, but... well, there isn't enough proof just yet.

Third, in spite of endless attempts to trap them and stop them, Jon is always able to travel with the Fears. Perhaps they simply can't stop him, as the original antichrist he apparently is; dozens of apocalypses in dozens of different universes, and Jon can always feel his rightful place as ruler of that terrible fearscape calling to him. He hasn't taken it yet, but it's _there,_ and the Eye cannot abandon its true pupil without his permission.

Or perhaps they simply don't care. Every attempt so far has led to the exact same result, after all: another world left behind, another death by starvation averted, another new feast for the Fears to sink their teeth into.

Fourth, he _always_ passes out upon entering a new world.

It's kind of annoying.

\---

It is _slightly_ unusual for him to wake up warm, comfortable, and covered in a blanket, but Jon's not about to complain. It's nice. He doesn't get a lot of comfort, and he _likes_ sleeping in a bed, especially since he's always eldritch-nightmare-free in a new world. For a limited time only, of course.

He's fairly certain he's inside; aside from the softness underneath and around him, the air is still and temperate, the light through his eyelids is artificial, and all he can hear is the faint whirring of appliances and the whispers of two muted voices.

_"_ —complete stranger, definitely dangerous, looks like he's from _hell_ —"

"Okay, fine, but I wasn't going to _leave_ him, and anyway haven't you noticed he's a bit—"

"A bit what? Scarred? Bloodstained? _Glowing eyes,_ because I don't think I need to remind you, Martin, his eyes were _absolutely_ glowing when you found him—"

_Martin._ Now there's a name. Not an uncommon one, but... he thinks he knows that voice.

Or. Well. He might know _both_ of those voices, actually, which is even more interesting than waking up in a bed.

Jon opens his eyes.

He's met himself before, is the thing. Not in every world, and not always particularly recognizable, but he's met himself. He's met versions of Martin, too, and eventually stopped going completely useless with heartbreak every time. The merest handful of times, he's found both of them in the same world, sometimes something almost like friends, but usually not.

The fact that they have their arms around each other, casual, comfortable, close, is both entirely unexpected and perfectly, wonderfully, terribly familiar. Jon briefly considers crying about it, but there are more important things to be doing. For example.

"The glowing eyes aren't actually that sinister. I mean, they are, but not for the reasons you're probably thinking."

Jon—the other Jon—jumps at the sound of his voice, then leans forward. Curiosity, of course; that hardly ever seems to change. "You—the glowing—who are you?"

" _Jon,_ " this new version of Martin scolds, and for just a moment he's back home, with _his_ Martin, with that exasperated tone—but no, this isn't his Martin, and he's also leaning forward now, his voice turning gentle. Concerned. _Coaxing_ , like he's a spooked animal, and Jon doesn't think his Martin has ever talked to him that way. "How are you feeling? We found you unconscious in the street."

He can _feel_ Martin's curiosity too, pushing forward under his concern, just as questioning as Jon but too polite to outright say it yet. He has to cut this off, or he really will cry.

"Mm... no," he says. "Well, yes. But also." Good lord, he's confusing them. Par for the course, but he should probably try to be somewhat comprehensible.

He holds up a hand, extending one finger. "I am... fine. More or less. Trust me, I'm used to this, and this isn't even the worst way it's happened." Another finger joins the first. "My name, as I believe Martin has guessed but then dismissed, is Jonathan Sims. I am _not_ you from the future, nor am I lying, nor am I crazy, because—" a third finger "—interdimensional travel is not only possible, it has happened, _is happening,_ because of and along with terrible monstrosities I am determined to stop, and I have explained this too many times to too many people to have much patience for anyone being _shocked_ and _disbelieving_ , much less a version of myself doing so, so you can either get over it and move on or I can go elsewhere and do something useful."

" _Excuse_ —"

"And," he continues, pushing himself up so he can sit and lean forward even more intensely than his counterpart, "I would actually rather not do that just yet, because I have an _extremely_ pressing question for the two of you."

"Um," Martin says, and "What," says the other Jon.

"How," Jon asks, deepening his voice to exude solemn, ominous, and eldritchly important, "did you two start dating?"

\---

It was so... normal. Apparently. Two people, mutual friends, a chance encounter. A prickly exterior ("He _hated_ me," both of them had claimed), but without the insecurity of being Head Archivist and the fear of dread powers beyond his comprehension, their friends had helped him open up and—eventually—apologise. A budding friendship, and then a romance, and then...

It isn't a version of them Jon has seen anywhere else, in any of the worlds he's traveled to. Normal as it is, it's a highly improbably scenario, and certainly not the same as his relationship with his Martin had been. But it was, in an infinite number of worlds, still a _possibility._

Jon isn't quite sure how he feels about that, knowing that some version of them could have fallen in love without the trauma, but that _they_ hadn't managed it.

His hands aren't shaking, as he lights his cigarette. At least there's that.

"I quit, you know," his counterpart says from behind him. "Years ago. I'd forgotten about those until you asked."

"Well then, thank you for indulging me." He gestures, meaning the cigarette, meaning the bed, meaning his claims about reality, meaning his intrusive, gossipy questioning. Meaning everything. He's not sure it gets across.

The other Jon laughs, quietly, and moves to stand next to him. "I _am_ my worst enabler."

"Oh, that's hardly true."

"Mm." They're silent together for a while, but Jon is restless (both of him), and eventually this reality's version opens his mouth to ask. "Do you—do you know why I—I don't want to say _believed_ you, I'm still not sure I do, b-but, didn't throw you out immediately?"

"My myriad charms?" They both laugh at that.

"Jonathan Sims," he says, as if that explains anything.

Jon takes a drag of his cigarette, considering. He could probably Know, but... indulging himself. "What about me?"

"No, not _you_ , or. You know. You. But your name. Jonathan Sims. I decided you weren't, weren't a deliberate lie to trick me, or a future version of myself, or a mind-reading monster—"

"Well—"

"—when you said your _name_ , because none of those things would have said that." He smiles then and holds up a hand, and—oh—his ring glints. "I've been Jonathan _Blackwood_ for a while now."

They'd told him _married_ eventually, but he hadn't even thought about his name. He's certainly thinking about it now. "Jonathan Blackwood," he says, soft, to himself. And to himself. "That... that sounds good."

"It does, doesn't it."

Whatever they might have said next is lost as an incredibly loud engine roars nearby and a sleek black motorcycle pulls up in front of them. Jon sighs and takes one last drag of his cigarette as the rider removes her helmet.

"Been off finding yourself, then, Jon?" Annabelle asks.

"Oh, extremely funny, yes. Did you steal that?"

"It was a _gift._ "

"Of course it was."

The other Jon is staring at them both, his eyes repeatedly drifting back to the web-covered hole in Annabelle's head. "Who—what is—is that a—"

"She's a spider monster," Jon supplies helpfully. "She came with me, although _apparently_ she did not pass out in the street this time."

"Two streets over, I think. Pity, I would've loved a nice nap in a proper bed, but I did get this motorcycle out of it. Come _on,_ Jon, you can mope on the way."

"I have not been _moping_ —"

"Haven't you? You're not the one who deals with how _maudlin_ you get every time you meet yourself—"

"Yes, fine, thank you, we can _go._ " He stubs out the cigarette and pauses, looking at himself. "Uh. Tell Martin—well, goodbye, I guess. I'd say I hope we meet again, but if you're lucky we won't need to?"

"...sure."

"And I'm—I hope you—that is, I'll do my best—well." He sighs. "Things are about to get... dicey, for the world in general. But just, look out for each other, and we'll try to handle the rest."

" _Jon,_ we should be _going._ "

"Yes, all right, all right." He gives himself one last, probably not very reassuring smile, and climbs on behind Annabelle.

They do have work to do, after all.


End file.
